Anthony Procopio Ross So, You're Told

'We've been here before.' 'No, we haven't.'
We'll both die speaking these truisms — none
the wiser among us, our sky rotating high above us.
Consider our breath leaving dashes
in the March breeze carried off until
indistinct among the furlough, many others.
What do we mean when we say, 'Enough?'
The stop to a circling? and end to this sen-
tence? In the corner of our vision a look
of defeat from the amateur thereminist
slowly takes over the dimming of hands
and the flattening of a pitch until none.
Maybe we've arrived at a place we're afraid
to contradict each other. Breathing has no
place to go but to take residence always,
a promise that cyclicality is gorgeous when
no one is looking. Our stories are best told
forgotten. If you don't catch yourself, they'll always.
Bach's sixth suite, Sarabande, is easily occasioned
at funeral or wedding. The smooth dips of bow
show how serious our faces can appear gazing at
something far off into the distance. Sweat drips off
the cellist's forehead. He's working through a death.
The audience feels as if something has stayed the same







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